PROLOGUE
They say bad things come in threes.
Well, I’m not superstitious, but even I have to admit that whoever ‘they’ are has a point
The first bad news was hearing that my boyfriend of two years would be leaving for a three-month trip the day after he proposed to me, who the hell does that? It was a work thing, something he had no control over, so I had to deal with it.
I thought we were inevitable, that we could handle anything, including long distance. When the calls became shorter and less frequent, I chalked it up to a busy schedule because, in my mind, there was no other plausible explanation.
The second piece of bad news came when he told me he needed to stay an extra month. I should have seen that things were going downhill, but I figured that if he could stick through two years of knowing me and another two years of dating me, then one more month was no big deal.
The third came after he returned. I kissed him, but he didn’t kiss me back. Then he proceeded to tell me that he had fallen in love on the trip. Worse, he had fallen for a cowgirl.
She cleaned barns for a living, and I owned one of the largest retail fashion stores in New York. But he chose her over me.
Being the ever-sophisticated woman that I am, I took it in stride. I slipped off the engagement ring, handed it back to him, and wished him the best. Then he told me he was leaving his awesome job as a hotshot lawyer to live in the country with his new girl and start a law firm.
That would be cute—if it weren’t so pitiful.
Those three things taught me three lessons (ironic, I know):
1."They" are right.
2.If you want to attract a man, be a poor, helpless country girl.
3.I hate the country.
CHAPTER 1: SEVEN DAYS POST BREAK-UP
In the past week, there were three things I had grown to hate about New York.
First was the consistency. If New Yorkers were anything, they were consistent. They took the same route to work every day, played the same music, and did the same things. I wanted to scream, Try something different for a change!
Second was the crowds. I used to love the fact that one could easily blend into the streets—I loved the hustle and bustle. It reminded me so much of Lagos, even though I hadn’t been there in years. But right now, I hated how I was getting brushed and touched by every single person.
Third was how everyone seemed to be flaunting their relationships right after mine had just ended. One day, I saw a couplesitting on a bench, sharing an earpiece; another stealing bites of each other’s ice cream; and one kissing in front of an office.
I was happy for all of them—though I kind of hoped the third one got fired. (I’m kidding… not). But every time I saw them, I fought the urge to rip my own hair out.
In the twenty-six years of my life, I had never been dumped—ever. I do the dumping. I had never given a man the chance to dump me. The moment I saw even the slightest sign of boredom or discontent, I ended things.
It was something I was very proud of, until last week.
It made me laugh when I thought about it. I laughed because if I didn’t, I’ll probably end up overthinking all the signs I missed. I brushed off every single red flag until he finally dumped me.
Well, technically, he didn’t dump me. He just told me he was in love with someone else. I was the one who gave him back his ring and walked out of his condo. So, technically, I still haven’t been dumped, which made it a win for me.
He didn’t even attempt to chase after me or try to talk me out of it. He just let me go. He didn’t even stay the night before driving back to the country to see his dung-shoveling girlfriend.
I shouldn’t have said that. My bad. Women supporting women and all that. He is the cheat, after all.
But still, it did a number on my ego.
I stood outside my store, coffee in hand, and exhaled deeply. At least I still have Emiade. I’ll live.
Emiade is my fashion brand. I started it at eighteen, and it took years of hard work to get it where it is today, one of the most popular fashion stores in New York, with branches in a few nearby states.
My brand catered specifically to women of color like myself, focusing on Ankara prints and fabrics. This line is my baby, and it has always come first. Getting here wasn’t easy, and I’d be damned if I let anything stand in my way.
